


lateral transfer

by LunaDarkside



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, There Is Absolutely No Plot In This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDarkside/pseuds/LunaDarkside
Summary: Shinichi is less than thrilled when he's demoted—sorry, "laterally transferred"—to Senior Inspector Kuroba Kaito's unit in the theft division.
Relationships: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan/Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid, Mouri Ran/Sera Masumi
Comments: 49
Kudos: 598





	lateral transfer

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written (very sloppily) over the course of many weeks and does not have a plot. in the single proofread that i did, i looked and couldn't find even a hint of one. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ at this point, i'm just going to release it into the wild, inconsistencies, confusing writing, typos and all. hopefully someone will get some enjoyment out of it?
> 
> note: i'm not sure if i need to say it, but the premise of the story sort of forces the question of "is flirtation from your boss sexual harassment???", and there are lighthearted discussions about that and related topics within this fic. please be aware that i have not treated the topic with the gravity it deserves. this is dumb romance fiction and not meant to be serious. the bottom line is that nothing non-consensual happens in this story.
> 
> that aside, i hope that everyone is staying safe and healthy! with any luck, this fic will take your mind off of everything that's going on. - luna

Shinichi stares.

“You’re demoting me,” he says, flat. Across the desk between them—his last defense against Shinichi flinging himself at him in a murderous rage—Megure coughs.

“No, no,” he insists, looking shifty when Shinichi’s glare intensifies. He keeps looking interestedly at something just over Shinichi’s shoulder, as there’s something very intriguing about the stack of old case reports dating back to 1982, empty oatmeal packets, or decade-old air fresheners that are all taking up residence on the bookshelf behind Shinichi. (Megure’s office is one of the saddest places Shinichi has ever set foot, rivaled only by a few of the worse crime scenes.) “It’s nothing as unreasonable as that, Kudou-kun. We would never do something like that to you. It’s a—a lateral… transfer?” Even he’s not sure he wants to finish his sentence, by the end of it.

Shinichi conveys his feelings on the matter with a succinct raise of his eyebrows. Megure withers, then gathers himself up.

“Look, Kudou-kun,” he says, taking on a paternal tone. “You’re one of my best officers, especially in the field. It’s just—some of your conduct in recent investigations has led some of the other officers to, ah, express concern about you being active in the field.” Shinichi feels one of his eyes start to twitch.

“Are you telling me that I’m being demoted because the ‘We Stalk Kudou Shinichi’ club told you to?”

“It’s the ‘Kudou Shinichi Defense Squad,’ actually,” says Megure, then winces. “I mean, no, you’re being de— _laterally transferred_ because of the fact that you blew your own cover and tranquilized our target with an unsanctioned tranquilizer watch gun that you said your ‘professor friend’ invented for you, then used another unsanctioned voice-changing device to mimic his voice and lure four armed dealers to where you were waiting, _by yourself_ , to take them out. And then you got shot.”

“Only a little! The bullet went straight through with minimal complications,” Shinichi points out, in a way that he thinks is very reasonable. “I was only in the hospital for eight days. And we arrested the entire trafficking ring responsible for the murders, which is way more than we were hoping for when we set up the operation.” Megure’s expression doesn’t waver. Shinichi spreads his hands in front of him. “I see this as an absolute win!”

“Kudou-kun,” Megure says. It’s the same way Ran said “Shinichi,” right before she broke up with him, at the end of the gelatinous mess of teenage hormones and feelings that had constituted their year-long relationship back in high school, and it’s the same way his mother said “Shin-chan,” when he told her that he couldn’t go to Milan with them because he was working on a serial beheading case. Pitying, apologetic, and patronizing, all at once. “It’s because we care about you that we’re doing this. Takagi-kun agreed, too.”

Shinichi lets his face speak for him. With any luck, it’s saying something along the lines of, “I trusted you as my friend and mentor, and I feel very betrayed and dislike you strongly in this moment.” Megure sighs and leans forward.

“The Kudou Shinichi Defense Squad ambushed me in the parking lot last night. I’m not sure who let them check out tactical gear and on what grounds, but _someone_ must have,” he says in an undertone. “Apparently my home address is also common knowledge. That was a fact that I didn’t want to ever find out.”

“Inspector,” Shinichi says, disdainful.

“They showed me pictures of my wife, Kudou-kun. How was I supposed to say no when she was staring at me like that?” Quite easily, Shinichi would think, but apparently Shinichi’s happiness and career aspirations rate lower than a picture of Megure Midori. Megure scowls, rubbing at his forehead. “And at any rate, I do think your actions on the last stakeout were cause for concern. I think it’ll do you go to work on cases that aren’t as likely to require high-stakes maneuvering. Something more on the intellectual side, to take your mind off of things for a little. This should be good for you.” His tone brooks no argument. Shinichi grimaces and gets to his feet. There’s no arguing with Megure when he’s made a decision.

“Okay,” he mutters. If he were an elderly widow with a will, he would be writing Megure out of it. “Well, I guess I’ll see you someday, if I don’t decide to leave the force after two days down there.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Kudou-kun,” Megure laughs, jovial now that Shinichi has acquiesced. He leans forward in his chair, folding his hands in front of him like a pleased principal. “I’m sure you’ll be kept on your toes on the Kid task force.”

“Mm,” Shinichi says, and slinks out of his office to go sulk in the breakroom for ten minutes before he goes to his doom.

* * *

It’s not that Shinichi necessarily _dislikes_ the theft division or theft cases in general. In fact, he’s collaborated on several cases with some of the theft detectives, and the officers seemed to be competent and good at their jobs. The one problem that Shinichi has with the theft division is—

“So you’re part of my team now?” says the perpetual thorn in his side, also known as Senior Inspector Kuroba Kaito, when Shinichi deigns to turn up at the theft department’s headquarters. Shinichi sighs.

There are a few things wrong with Kuroba Kaito. They are as follows:

  1. He’s the youngest senior police inspector in the entire Tokyo police force, a title which Shinichi had hoped to obtain (and yet he’s stuck at assistant inspector at the age of twenty-four), despite that
  2. He has an irritating tendency to interrupt debriefing sessions with inane comments to “lighten the mood,” when all it really does it interrupt the flow of the discussion and distract everyone from his division’s failures, which leads to the fact that
  3. He’s never actually come close to catching Kaitou Kid, despite three years of heading the task force formed specifically for that purpose, and yet has somehow managed to maintain his position and never get “laterally transferred,” and also,
  4. At least in Shinichi’s presence, he seems to have taken up residence in the liminal space between “workplace harassment” and “vaguely flirty compliments,” a property that Shinichi thinks he must’ve purchased from a devil somewhere in exchange for his soul and the ability to style his hair into something other than a frazzled bird’s playpen, and finally,
  5. Last year he and Shinichi got caught under the mistletoe at a work holiday party, exchanged an uncomfortable kiss in front of their colleagues, superiors, and an assorted collection of spouses, and then somehow managed to end up making out in the coat check closet until Superintendent Matsumoto walked in on them, and they haven’t talked since.



“Hi,” says Shinichi, in a tone that invites little to no conversation. Kuroba grins at him, parking his ass on the edge of Shinichi’s new, still-unfurnished desk.

“So you’ve been demoted into my section?” he asks, sounding thrilled. Shinichi eyes him: his hair looks as though it’s lost a fight with a determined woodpecker, and there are more wrinkles in his sloppily unbuttoned shirt than there are prefectures in Japan. Shinichi kind of wants to drag him into a broom closet. He clears his throat.

“Are you sure you should be calling it a ‘demotion’? Isn’t that going to worsen morale around here?” He glances at the officer sitting at the paper-strewn desk across from him and is given a dead-eyed stare in return. It’s like making eye contact with a recently dead fish. He quickly looks away and finds himself looking directly into Kuroba’s face. He has a really nice jawline.

“I don’t know that I have to worry about that,” Kuroba says, fond as he looks out across his dominion. He taps one heel against Shinichi’s desk, the sound hollow and somehow a little mocking. Shinichi sighs.

“I see,” he says, instead of the question that threatens to burst forth (“How many people did you sleep with to make it to senior police inspector?”). He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “So are there any cases that need investigating right now, or should I just try to set up my desk now?”

“I can think of a case needing investigating,” Kuroba remarks, somehow making it sound both mild and seductive as his gaze drips down to Shinichi’s lips so briefly Shinichi thinks he might have imagined it. Shinichi is uncomfortable with the fact that he’s so into Kuroba that imagining and/or hoping for it is a legitimate possibility. “But no, there’s nothing particularly pressing at the moment. We do have a Kid heist coming in two days, so there’s preparations to be done on that front.” He tilts his head at Shinichi. “Have you ever been to a Kid heist, Kudou-kun?”

“No,” Shinichi says. He’s thought about it, before, but somehow has never made it out to one of them. People always seem to need murdering around heist times, for some statically plausible but odd-feeling reason. One time he was nearly flattened by a falling decapitated body while getting into a cab that would’ve taken him to a heist.

“Oh, I see. A Kid virgin,” Kuroba says, which is a… phrase. He winks at Shinichi as he stands, ruining the line of his pants by tucking his hands into his pockets in a manner that’s somehow flirtatious. _Hands in pockets are not hot,_ Shinichi chants to himself. “Well, you’re in for a treat. Saotome here can help you out.” He nods at Shinichi’s new robot-deskmate, who doesn’t look up from her work. “Have fun, Kudou-kun.”

Shinichi stares after him as he trots off, whistling something Disney-sounding as he goes.

“I think Inspector Kuroba might want to get in your pants,” the previously silent officer comments, making Shinichi jump like a cat with its tail jammed into an electrical outlet. She turns a beady, judgy eye on the box of belongings that he brought from the homicide division—there’s a Limited Edition Sherlock (Deerstalker Hat Edition) Funko Pop balanced teeteringly on top, beside a withered, brown-edged succulent in a turtle-shaped planter, so it’s a fair enough reaction. “Did you want help with that, or.” She leaves the rest of the sentence off in what Shinichi understands as the opposite of an invitation. (A disinvitation?)

“I—think I’m okay,” Shinichi says. “Uh, Saotome-san, was it?”

“Uh-huh,” the woman agrees. She stares at him for an interminable amount of time, as though cataloguing the best way to crack open his skull like a coconut and feast on his brain, before blinking mechanically and looking back at the stack of papers on his desk. Shinichi forces himself to hold in a sigh. Not to overstate the situation, but this kind of sucks.

* * *

Scratch that. This _really_ sucks.

“How did he manage to do this?” Shinichi asks, a question directed at the fact that Kid easily slipped through four layers of security that Shinichi _personally_ designed, escaped Shinichi’s tail, managed to _knock Shinichi out_ for half an hour, and is responsible for the mess currently perched on top of his head. He’s not exactly looking for a technical answer.

“We think he’s managed to create some kind of really effective hair bleach?” one of Kuroba’s more guileless officers offers, sounding chirpy in a way only someone whose hair has _not_ just been dyed bright red can manage. When Shinichi turns to look at him, he flinches back a little but maintains his broad smile. Shinichi _thinks_ his name is Wakamoto. It might be good to know when he’s filing a conduct report for wringing Wakamoto’s neck in full view of the entire Kid task force.

“Thank you, Officer,” he says.

Wakamoto doesn’t appear to sense Shinichi’s killing intent, because he adds, “It’s incredible, really! It only takes twenty minutes to lift color off of untreated hair, _without_ brassiness, and it only requires one application to go down, like, four steps! If Kid sold—”

“ _Thank_ you, Officer. Why don’t you see to the rest of the squad? Maybe check in with some of the victims,” a voice calls from somewhere behind Shinichi, and Shinichi and his bright red hair turn to glare as Kuroba saunters up in a stately-looking double-breasted pea coat and wind-tousled, unharmed hair. Shinichi has never used the word “saunter” in his life, but he’s also never seen Kuroba stroll up with that gleam in his eyes.

Shinichi squints at him.

“And where were you, when I was being subjected to Kid’s _incredible_ hairdressing skills?” he demands. The entire heist, he didn’t catch a single glimpse of Kuroba, which grates on him. The youngest police inspector in the force, the head of the Kid task force, and he’s not even chasing after Kid in person?

“I was monitoring the situation from the security booth and directing everyone to their posts,” Kuroba says, grinning as he rocks back and forth on his heels and eyes Shinichi with unbridled joy, as if some hilarious joke is written all over Shinichi in a language that only he can understand. “A dye job like that would cost you quite a bit at a salon. Maybe you should thank Kid?”

“Or maybe I should bill him for my emotional trauma,” Shinichi points out, and sighs as a passing task force member gawks at him and reaches for their phone. He crosses his arms over his chest. “People are going to confuse me for a stop sign if I pause too long on a sidewalk.”

“At the very least, you didn’t get the worst color,” Kuroba tries, which earns him a raised eyebrow. He spreads his hands, placating. “Wakamoto got orange, for example. Saotome got white. I got blue.” When Shinichi’s expression doesn’t change, he continues, “Orange roses mean enthusiasm and fascination, and white means purity and innocence, but blue means impossibility.” He makes a sad face. “It’s truly tragic to know that I will never get with Kid.” Shinichi regards him with discomfort.

“I’m sure your bucket list is very empty without that particular achievement rounding it out. So, uh, what do red roses mean?” he asks, even though he’s already ninety-eight percent sure that he doesn’t want to know.

Sure enough, Kuroba slides him a knowing, thirsty look and says, “I’m quite certain they mean love, romance, and passion, Kudou-kun.” There’s some shoulder-shimmying involved in the explanation.

“How horrifying,” Shinichi says blandly, and Kuroba gives him a theatrically sad look.

“You’re so cold, Shinichi-chan,” he coos, and then laughs uproariously at what he probably intended to be some kind of joke.

Shinichi frowns. Kuroba is very at ease for someone whose job technically hinges on catching Kid. It’s kind of irritating him, that he can be this frustrated over the whole thing when the man who’s responsible for the whole operation is brushing it off as though it’s nothing, and Shinichi is not nothing if not petty.

“Oh, by the way…” Feigning an air of innocence, Shinichi glances around, surreptitious, and leans in, beckoning Kuroba in with a wiggle of his fingers. Kuroba tilts towards him in response, close enough that Shinichi can smell the woodsy top notes of his cologne. Taking a deep breath, he maneuvers until his lips are right beside Kuroba’s ear and whispers, soft and sultry, “At any rate, it’s too bad you weren’t around to watch me lose my virginity, Inspector.”

When he pulls away, Kuroba is blinking stupidly at him with his mouth open, as though someone has factory-reset him partway through a sentence. Shinichi takes great pleasure in watching a flush rise up his neck. He raises his eyebrows, pointed.

“My Kid virginity?” he prompts. Surprisingly, that only makes Kuroba go even redder. At this point, his cheeks are competing with Shinichi’s hair for Reddest Object in a Fifteen-Mile Radius.

“Oh,” says Kuroba, after a significant pause. “Uh. Yeah.” Shinichi is wondering, idly, if he can oust Kuroba from his inspectorship on grounds of instability, when Kuroba straightens and seems to regain control of himself. “Well. I, ah… yeah, I guess you’re right. I wasn’t there to see that… happen.”

“Did Kid steal your tongue along with the Fae’s Kiss?” Shinichi asks, now verging on concern. As much as he doesn’t know what to make of Kuroba, he didn’t actually intend to break the man. Kuroba seems to make a concerted effort to regroup.

“No, he—I’m completely fine,” he says, gathering himself up into a solid stance. “I am not at all thinking about the words that you just said to me.” He takes a deep breath. “I am not picturing anything, and I am not at all imagining about you in any contexts that may or may not involve capes and/or rooftops.”

“How kind of you?” Shinichi says, utterly perplexed. Kuroba makes a production of coughing into one hand, clears his throat twice, and then looks Shinichi in the eye.

“Would you like to come to our debriefing meeting?”

* * *

As it turns out, what Kuroba meant by “debriefing meeting” is “going to the nearest, shadiest, most-likely-a-front-for-the-yakuza twenty-four-hour restaurant and eating bad pancakes and drinking burnt coffee with a grand total of five officers, including Shinichi and Kuroba himself, present.” Shinichi would love to claim that he’s surprised, but unfortunately, his opinion of Kuroba is low enough that the whole experience comes as no surprise.

“Do we… debrief about the heist, now?” Shinichi asks, hesitant, when the sullen-looking waiter drops off their last plate of pancakes and slithers back into the back of the restaurant. He sniffs at the tea that he ordered, which is most certainly hot water with chopped-up lettuce bits (?) added to it. It’s probably his own fault for ordering tea in the first place.

“No,” Saotome says. She didn’t order anything, and in fact is now pulling a book out of—somewhere on her person. It’s a giant book, too, bigger than Saotome’s head. Shinichi goggles.

“This must be your first debriefing meeting, huh, Kudou-san?” chirps Wakamoto. In the minute since the food has been delivered, he’s crammed two pancake into his mouth and is trying to fit in another, with some success. Kaitani, one of the few others who tagged along, watches him and his mouth with great interest.

“Ye-es,” Shinichi agrees, looking furtively behind the counter into the abandoned-looking kitchen. He’s pretty sure he just heard someone say, “Put the money in the bags and let’s go,” but he may also be trying to find a reason to leave. With a flinch, he looks down at the waffle on his plate. It’s somehow both burnt along the edges and frozen in the middle. “I just transferred into this division, after all. Um, what do we do at these meetings?”

“Debrief,” Kaitani says, looking at Wakamoto with an expression that conveys he’s thinking of a different meaning to “debrief” than “discuss the heist that they just failed to thwart.”

“Eat up! Inspector Kuroba pays for everything!” Wakamoto says, if Shinichi’s interpretation of the muffled sounds that escape past the pancake barricade in his mouth can be trusted. Enthusiastically, he pats Kuroba on the shoulder, which Kuroba accepts with a graceful wave of his hand and a delicate sip of his coffee, like a dictator accepting praise from a loyal attendant. When Wakamoto reaches for Shinichi’s waffle and Kaitani leans forward with anticipation, Shinichi holds back a sigh and turns to look at Saotome. The book she’s reading is _Crime and Punishment._

“So what did you”—one glimpse at the book reveals that it’s written in the original Russian; Shinichi blinks—“think of the heist, Saotome-san?”

“Commonplace,” she says, and flips a page with a determination that implies she’s going to ignore anything else Shinichi tries to say to her.

“Do you think you could fit something else in there?” Kaitani asks Wakamoto. “Like, something longer, maybe? More… cylindrical?”

“I’ve fit an entire banana into my mouth before. Like, a big one, not a plantain or anything,” Wakamoto says proudly, and receives much oohing from his audience. Kuroba raises his cup in a salute.

“Very nice, Wakamoto-kun,” he remarks before he makes a point to catch Shinichi’s eye. Shinichi seems to be developing a sixth sense for his annoying comments, because he somehow _knows_ it’s coming when Kuroba continues, with ambitiously-held eye contact, “I, however, am not only talented with my mouth, but also my hands.” He winks at Shinichi and, setting down his cup, does something quick and flashy with one hand that results in a bright red rose appearing out of his fist. “For you, Kudou-kun.”

Shinichi rubs at his temples. When he doesn’t reach out and take it fast enough for Kuroba, Kuroba leans over and tucks it behind one of his ears before Shinichi can grab him by the wrist and say anything about HR.

“Hey!” Wakamoto shouts. A chunk of pancake ejects from his mouth at high velocity and splats onto the table beside Saotome’s hand (she doesn’t so much as blink). “The rose is the same color as your hair, Kudou-san!”

“Excellent,” Shinichi says, and releases the sigh that’s been building up in his chest.

In the end, Wakamoto and Kaitani are the first to leave, with Kaitani ushering Wakamoto out of the restaurant with a good deal of solicitousness and a single hand hovering at the boundary between proprietary and respectful at Wakamoto’s waist. Wakamoto seems oblivious to everything as he and Kaitani sail out. He’s progressed from talking about the banana to talking about a jumbo corn dog that he also managed to fit in his mouth. Shinichi watches them go, brow creased.

“Is that a thing?” he asks, not expecting or really wanting to be answered. “I mean, are they a thing?”

Kuroba lives to be contrary, of course, so he answers, “As far as we and the office betting pool know, it’s just been Kaitani trying to drop hints and getting stonewalled by Wakamoto’s innocence.” He slants a very specific, very pointed look at Shinichi. It’s a look that Shinichi would prefer not to touch with a ten-foot pole. “Apparently they kissed under the mistletoe at a work party a few years ago, though.”

“I don’t know anyone else who might’ve done that,” says Shinichi, a fraction of a second too quickly. He coughs.

“Mm,” Kuroba hums.

“I’m going now,” Saotome announces, shutting her book. She serves each of them a single, dead-eyed smile, stands, and slips out of the restaurant. Shinichi watches her even when she’s outside: she steps onto a crosswalk even though the light is red, receives furious honks from a car forced to brake, and quells them with one look before she disappears into the darkness like a creature of the night. Shinichi is not afraid to admit that he’s scared of her.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Kuroba comments, bringing Shinichi’s attention back to him. He has this predatory little half-smile on his face, like a bear that’s come home to find an unsuspecting rabbit sleeping in its den. His voice drops as he adds, “So do you actually not remember what happened at last year’s holiday party?”

“I was drunk,” Shinichi says, which is the honest truth. For a bunch of people working in law enforcement, the number of likely illegal homebrews that crop up at the office parties is worrying. He folds his hands in front of them, then unfolds them when he realizes he looks like a school principal trying to issue a disciplinary warning. “My memory of that night is… hazy.”

“Uh huh,” Kuroba says, in the least convinced tone a human being has ever employed in the history of the universe. He finishes the last of his coffee, tipping his head back enough that Shinichi gets an uninterrupted view of his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Is there a chance you remember getting to third base in a coat closet with… someone?”

Okay, Shinichi doesn’t remember getting to _third base_. Second base, or maybe halfway _to_ third base, but not _third base_.

“I don’t,” he says firmly. Kuroba is visibly amused.

“All right,” he agrees, nonchalant. “Well, in that case I guess we don’t have anything we need to talk about.” He sets down his coffee cup, rubbing his fingertips around the rim of it in an annoyingly obscene way. “Let me know if your memory ever gets refreshed. Until then, was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” Shinichi pauses. Looks down at the table, which is covered in the detritus of pancakes. Looks back up.

“How do I dye my hair back?” he asks.

* * *

A few days later Shinichi is peacefully filing a stolen purse report for a tiny woman in floral dungarees when Kuroba saunters up. He proceeds to plant one hand on either side of Shinichi, boxing him in against his desk, and when Shinichi doesn’t deign to turn around, he leans in until his head is beside Shinichi’s ear.

“I need you, Kudou-kun,” he intones.

“And I need you to leave me alone, now,” Shinichi replies, resisting the urge to snap his head back into Kuroba’s face and break his nose. He hasn’t had time to dye his hair back, so it’s still red. Maybe it would hide the blood. When Kuroba leans a tantalizing few inches closer, Shinichi can feel his ears getting hot and hates himself kind of a lot. Kuroba must notice, because he rumbles this irritatingly sexy laugh and breaths out on Shinichi’s neck, hot and too close. Shinichi shivers, his fingers stuttering on his keyboard.

“Oh!” Mrs. Fujisaki says, looking between them with wide eyes. She has one hand raised to her mouth and is giggling to herself. When she stands with a burst of dated rose perfume, she and her embroidered felt hat barely clear Kuroba’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to interrupt! I should leave you two alone!”

“No, ma’am, if anything, it’s the inspector who’s interrupting,” Shinichi begins to say, but Mrs. Fujisaki is already scuttling off, probably to tell her bingo club about what she just witnessed. Shinichi sighs and whips around, almost taking off Kuroba’s chin with the crown of his head. “She lost a purse that had her only photo of her dead husband in it, Inspector Kuroba.”

“If she only had one photo of him, maybe she didn’t care that much about him,” Kuroba points out with frustrating logic. “Anyway, I want you to come with me on a case.”

Despite himself, Shinichi feels himself perk up, a Pavlovian response to the word “case.”

“Okay,” he says, and grabs his suit jacket off the back of his chair. “Uh, Saotome-san? If Fujisaki-san comes back, can you finish taking her statement?” Saotome takes one brief look at him, her eyes moving from Kuroba to him, before she nods, in an extremely judgy manner.

“Thanks, Saotome-kun,” Kuroba chirps before he takes Shinichi by the arm and walks him to the door. Shinichi would rip his arm out of his grip—he does, actually, know how to exit the building—but he lets himself indulge in the feeling of Kuroba’s big hands on him. Shinichi is a very weak man.

The case, as it turns out, is a jewelry store robbery. Nobunaga Jewelers was burglarized overnight, with ten million yen’s worth of jewelry stolen. The most expensive pieces were taken, while others were left scattered on the floor. The alarm system was turned off, and there are visible muddy footprints stamped on the carpet around all of the overturned but intact display cases.

“They staged the robbery,” Shinichi says the second he sets foot on the scene. “The alarm system was _turned off_. No thief would selectively take the expensive pieces and leave the less expensive; they’d just take everything. The owners probably wanted to still have some stock to sell, or maybe the less expensive pieces weren’t as heavily insured. Also, the display cases aren’t broken. What kind of burglar is careless enough to leave footprints everywhere and throw jewelry on the ground, but careful enough to gently lift off the display cases and set them aside? Burglars who don’t want to have to buy more display cases, that’s who.”

“Very nice,” Kuroba enthuses.

“ _This_ was your case that needed me?” Shinichi demands. He’s kind of disappointed. He was hoping for some kind of bank heist, or maybe a visiting dignitary being burglarized.

“Yep, it was very unsolvable,” Kuroba says. “Oh, look, how convenient, it’s lunchtime. Do you want to get something? There’s this excellent udon place a five-minute walk away from here.”

Shinichi frowns at him.

They get udon. It is, admittedly, excellent.

“So was there a reason why you were demoted to my division?” Kuroba asks around several strands of udon. He looks like an inquisitive catfish. Shinichi finishes chewing, sets down his chopsticks, and wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Apparently my actions on a stakeout were determined to be excessively dangerous. I took down the entire clan, and all I got was a demotion,” he says, pressing his lips together. Kuroba slurps, and somehow makes it sound unconvinced. Shinichi sighs. “I may have gotten mildly shot.”

“Scars are really sexy,” Kuroba says, which is the least appropriate thing he could’ve said. This reaction may show on Shinichi’s face, because Kuroba grins at him, looking pleased with himself. “I mean, you got the results, right? I doubt anyone else would’ve been able to take down the _entire group_ on their own.”

“It would’ve taken longer,” Shinichi agrees, peering down into his udon so he doesn’t have to keep making eye contact. “And in that time, how much more harm would they have done? They were killing off informants.” He doesn’t quite know why, but when Kuroba nods and smiles at him again, more gently this time, like candlelight instead of fluorescents—Shinichi gets the feeling that he understands, somehow, the persistent itchiness Shinichi gets underneath his skin when he knows he could do something to help someone, the way he felt when he broke cover and broke out non-regulation weapons.

“I also heard that you have a fanclub,” Kuroba adds, offhand, as he stirs his chopsticks through the remnants of his udon. “The Protect Kudou Shinichi and Threaten Anyone Who’s Laid a Hand On Him Even in a Drunken Stupor Group?”

“The Kudou Shinichi Defense Squad,” corrects Shinichi before he realizes what Kuroba’s said. “Wait, did they threaten you?”

“Mayhaps,” Kuroba hedges, spinning his chopsticks through his fingers. “I was approached in a curiously stopped elevator, once. That was all it took before they left me alone. As someone who’s been chasing Kid for this long, I have a few tricks up my own sleeves.” He gives Shinichi a wink. The man seems to dole them out the way a person in a white van hands out candy: with a smirky smile and what feels like a great number of ulterior motives.

“You kind of scare me,” Shinichi says, choosing not to add the part where he kind of turns Shinichi on, as well. “Eight times out of ten, I have no idea how to respond to anything you say or do.”

“Oh, Kudou-kun,” says Kuroba, and pats him on the hand very gently, enough that it’s semi-professional. “Those are rookie numbers. We’ve got to get them up.”

* * *

Shinichi makes the mistake of asking Ran to help him dye his hair back to its usual color. The problem is not so much her dyeing skills or even the fact that she turns up moderately drunk from stopping at a nearby izakaya’s happy hour and enjoying at least two suspiciously inexpensive grapefruit sours. The problem is more that she brings Sera with her.

“Why did you bring her,” Shinichi whines. Sera is sitting on his couch with a bag of Baby Star open in one hand, watching the proceedings with avid curiosity. He’s been trying to avoid her, mostly because she works in the second division and hears basically every piece of gossip to ever grace the vaunted halls of Tokyo police headquarters.

“Because she’s the love of my life,” says Ran, and turns to give Sera a soppy smile (which is returned in kind). Her momentary distraction results in the distinct feeling of dye being swiped slimily across the back of Shinichi’s neck. He shudders.

“And I’m the platonic best friend of your life,” he points out, in a way that he thinks is very reasonable. Ran makes a considering noise and slops a wet glob across the side of his head.

“No, I think that’s Sonoko, actually. You’re my—the? The childhood best friend of my life?” she offers. It is, as far as consolation prizes go, up there with a “you tried” star. Shinichi clamps his jaw shut on the sigh that threatens to escape.

“So, Kudou-kun,” says Sera, punctuating his name with a crunch of monosodium glutamate-doused dry ramen bits. “I heard from Inspector Momose—”

“Inspector Momose talks about me?” Shinichi asks, horrified.

“He was at that holiday party,” Sera says, drawing a knowing nod from Ran, who has witnessed many of Sera’s melodramatic reenactments of what Shinichi terms The Incident that Shall Not Be Named (or, when he’s more drunk, The “Why Is Matsumoto So Clumsy? Anyway, Who Cares If He Spilled Wine Down the Front of His Dress Shirt and Got Embarrassed and Wanted to Cover The Stain With His Jacket? He’s The Superintendent, It’s Not Like Anyone was Going to Say Anything About It, So Why Couldn’t He Have Waited Another Fifteen Minutes Before Going to Get His Coat From the Coat Closet?” Debacle).

Shinichi sighs.

“Anyway,” Sera continues, adopting the tone of someone about to divulge state secrets, “I heard from Inspector Momose—who heard from Inspector Megure, who heard from Inspector Satou, who heard from Yumi-san, who heard from Naeko-san, who heard from someone called Saotome—that Inspector Kuroba from the theft division is _super_ into you.”

Saotome is the snitch, then. Shinichi tries to think of a way to silence her that wouldn’t end up requiring several massive bribes to his former colleagues from the homicide division.

“Well,” Shinichi begins, not sure where he’s going with whatever he’s trying to say. “I suppose it depends on your definition of… into-ness?”

“Shinichi!” squeals Ran. “You have a boyfriend?”

“No!” Shinichi snaps, and is immediately punished for his impudence by getting dye slapped across his cheek. “Okay, that wasn’t even subtle.”

“Whoops, my hand slipped,” Ran says. It’s honestly insulting how little effort she puts into sounding convincing. “But Shinichi! You’ve had a thing for Inspector Kuroba since forever!”

“How does that figure?” Shinichi grumbles.

“You haven’t reported him to HR for sexual harassment,” Sera offers, the traitor. To be fair, Ran is the one who has easy access to where she sleeps at night as well as the ability to take her in a fight, so it makes sense that she’d try to stay on Ran’s good side.

“He doesn’t say anything inappropriate to me,” Shinichi sniffs.

“One time I saw him stare at your ass as you went by, and once you were around the corner, he said, ‘If we put him in the interrogation room, I’m pretty sure anyone would crack in under five minutes.’ And then he fanned himself.” Sera points a finger at him. Shinichi hazards a head-turn to frown at her.

“Wasn’t he just complimenting my interrogation skills?”

“Oh, Shinichi,” Ran says, sounding both fond and amused at his expense, as though he’s a bird who’s flying into the same glass door for the eighth time in a row. “If someone said that about me, I would break both of their legs and then spray-paint ‘PERVERT’ on their car. And _then_ I would report them to HR.” She sighs, massaging the dye into his scalp with her fingers (Shinichi isn’t sure if that’s normal hair-dyeing procedure or a side effect of the grapefruit sours). “Unless it was you, Masumi. I would only break your legs.”

“Aww,” Sera coos.

“So you see,” continues Ran, philosophical, as she ties a shopping bag around Shinichi’s head, “the only reason you don’t think that’s wildly inappropriate is because you’re into him. Your boundary of ‘is this creepy?’ is relative to how into him you are. And since you’re super into him, the ‘is this creepy?’ threshold is super high.”

“Babe, you’re so smart,” gushes Sera.

“At any rate,” Shinichi announces, loudly, “he’s my direct superior, so there’s no way that I could ever date him.”

“That excuse will only hold out until you get transferred back to the first division,” Sera points out. “And anyway, you guys could always have some kind of secret office romance. That might spice things up.”

“Babe, _you’re_ so smart,” Ran says.

“I think the fumes from the hair dye have gotten to both of you,” Shinichi says, practical. Ran slaps paint across his mouth, which is the rudest thing he’s ever experienced and results in a lot of spluttering and running to the kitchen to rinse out his mouth while Ran and Sera do God-knows-what on his couch. Then he ends up getting caught in an hour-long conversation about how Sonoko is threatening to leave Makoto but she won’t because she loves him and how Kazuha is planning to propose to Hattori if Hattori doesn’t get himself together and does Shinichi know anything about Hattori’s plans in the marriage department, seeing as he’s Hattori’s best friend? (Shinichi doesn’t, which suggests that Hattori is probably going to get proposed to sometime soon.) Then Ran finds Shinichi’s shameful stash of jelly sake and they start looking at possible dog breeds for Ran and Sera to adopt. Shinichi petitions for them to get a cat and is duly rejected. He spends the rest of the night sulking.

The worst part of the whole night is that his hair actually turns out pretty good.

* * *

Kuroba has the audacity to look sad when Shinichi comes into work the next day with his hair fixed. He walks up to Shinichi, interrupting Shinichi’s extremely bored attempts to write report on a petty shoplifting, and puts a hand gently on the top of his head, the way someone might pet a crocodile at a petting zoo.

“You looked so cute with the red hair,” he says when Shinichi twists to glare at him, looking as though Shinichi has stomped on his foot without apologizing and then insulted his mother for good measure. Shinichi narrows his eyes, presses his lips together, and spins his desk chair around so he’s not tempted to make any apologies.

“Was there a reason that you came to my desk, or did you just want to give me unsolicited advice about my hair choices?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Kuroba says, removing his hand. “I wanted to ask you to come with me on a stakeout.”

Shinichi perks up.

The stakeout is about as interesting as stakeouts get, which is to say somewhere between “watching paint dry” and “attending a screening of a documentary about deep sea fishing.” He and Kuroba are situated in an abandoned apartment across the street from a supposed underground art dealer’s base of operations. They have a camera set up by the balcony, ready to take whatever incriminating pictures they can manage, as well as an infestation of very friendly mice to keep them company.

“Maybe you shouldn’t feed them,” Shinichi offers after the third time he sees Kuroba slip a scrap of melon bread to a mouse. He glances out the window, sees that absolutely nothing is happening, and leans back against one of the walls.

“You’re heartless,” Kuroba tells him, when one of the mice sidles up to Shinichi and all Shinichi does is give it a cold stare and lift his sandwich higher. Shinichi has been told that so many times that he doesn’t bother taking offense at it. Plus, the way Kuroba says it sounds kind of admiring, which is more than he can say for the times that Ran has shrieked it at him.

“Let’s play twenty questions,” Kuroba announces after he feeds yet another mouse the last bit of his bread. Shinichi is pretty sure he didn’t end up eating any of it.

“I reserve veto power,” says Shinichi, thinking of all the horrifying questions Kuroba could ask. If Kuroba breathes a word about holiday parties or making out or Superintendent Matsumoto, Shinichi will probably throw himself out the window.

“You have no trust in me,” Kuroba sighs, pressing a hand to his heart. There’s a mouse on each of his shoulders and two on his head. He looks like a Disney princess, if Disney princesses could be hot guys with bad hair and an allergy to clothes irons, if the state of his button-down is any indication. “I’ll start. What’s your favorite color?”

“Uh, blue, I guess,” Shinichi says. “What’s yours?”

“I like blue, too,” Kuroba says. “What’s your favorite animal?”

“Chinchillas,” Shinichi says, and then flushes. He should’ve picked something fiercer and less known for flailing around in dust baths amid coos of adoration. “I mean, uh, jaguars. Honey badgers. Wolves?”

Kuroba pinches his eyebrow, muttering something that sounds like “God, you’re adorable.” The mice pat the side of his face reassuringly. Shinichi isn’t sure he was supposed to hear that, and he’s almost convinced himself that he imagined it when Kuroba straightens and angles a thoughtful look in Shinichi’s direction. “If an inspector that you work with asked you out, and he was also dashingly handsome and charming, and you had displayed hints of liking him in the past, what would you say?”

Shinichi eyes the window longingly. It’s unfortunate that hurling himself out of it would alert their target to their presence.

“I don’t think I could date a superior officer,” he says. “But. Um. You know.” He waves a hand. He’s not sure even _he_ knows. Or, he knows that his feelings range between “how did he make inspector before me” and “I will begrudgingly admit that he’s hot and charming even if he’s incompetent” and “I maybe like being around him,” and “something about being around him turns me into an embarrassed mess,” but he’s not entirely sure how to get an average out of all of those feelings. Or what the average even would be.

Kuroba grins at him.

* * *

There’s a Kid heist a week later. Shinichi ends the debacle with paint smeared over his face and neck, sitting on a curb and watching a tiny white speck of hang glider disappear into the night sky.

“I think it’s edible,” Kuroba remarks thoughtfully. He swipes a fingertip over Shinichi’s neck and brings it to his lips. Shinichi is not having thoughts about taking its place. He _isn’t._ “Yeah, that’s butterscotch.”

“Why me?” Shinichi asks of nobody in particular. “Why doesn’t this ever seem to happen to anyone else?” He side-eyes Kuroba, who once again spent the entire heist in the security guard room, watching video feeds and giving half-assed orders over the walkie-talkie system.

“You must be a very appealing person to target,” Kuroba says philosophically. He swipes more paint off of Shinichi’s cheek and licks it off his finger before batting his eyelashes. “Debriefing?”

The “debriefing” is at the same diner. Kuroba orders coffee and is given hot Coca-Cola instead, which he drinks anyway, like some kind of ingrate. Saotome has apparently moved on to _Les Misérables_ , which she is also reading in the original French. When Shinichi accidentally knocks a napkin off the table and goes to retrieve it, he discovers that Kaitani and Wakamoto are playing footsie.

“All right, enough about the heist,” Kuroba says after ten minutes of heist-unrelated conversation about the upcoming Olympics, the increasing price of vending machine drinks, and was it their imagination, or was that a gunshot coming from the kitchen? He sets down his hot Coke and folds his hands in front of him. “The superintendent is coming down on me for not catching Kid yet. Do we have any ideas about how we can put him off until he leaves for England again?”

“We could ask Kid to turn himself in,” offers Wakamoto, cheerful, and pours pancake syrup directly into his mouth before choking and breaking into a fit of gagging. (Kaitani leans forward.) “Uh, I think that’s canola oil,” he splutters.

Saotome looks up from her book and slowly drags her thumb across her throat in the universal gesture for “kill him.” When Kuroba raises his eyebrows at her, she adds, “Kill him,” in a very _duh_ tone. Kuroba nods, thoughtful.

“Thank you, Saotome-kun,” he says. “You’re always full of innovative ideas.”

“This division is doomed,” Shinichi says.

“You could always sleep with him, Inspector,” Kaitani suggests, which makes Shinichi’s spine snap straight as he whips around to stare at Kuroba. Kuroba scrunches up his nose and does a seesawing, so-so hand motion.

“That might not work this time,” he says.

“ _This time_?” Shinichi squawks, aware that his voice has gone an unseemly level of shrill. “Is that how you made inspector so young?”

“Not exactly,” Kuroba says. “I was classmates with Hakuba—Hakuba Saguru? You know, the superintendent whose dad is superintendent general? We have this weird frenemy relationship. And he made me an inspector in the theft division to prove a point about me being Ki— about me, I guess. But yeah. Every now and again he comes after me, being all ‘Why haven’t you caught Kid yet, Kuroba?’ and I have to think of a way distract him until he leaves for England again.”

“One time the inspector tried to convince Superintendent Hakuba that he wanted to start a polyamorous relationship with the superintendent and his wife. That waylaid him for a good number of weeks,” Wakamoto chirps. Shinichi thinks he might still be drinking the canola oil (?).

“I think he was actually considering it,” Kaito says. “He asked me about my feelings on roleplay, once. I told him I only liked it if it was ‘gas station attendant and shoplifter with an illegal firearm’ roleplay, which shut him up pretty quickly.” He gives a fond sigh and takes another sip of his hot Coke. “What an unfortunate lost opportunity.”

“So that’s how you made inspector so young,” Shinichi says. It all makes sense. He sinks down in the booth, unfolding his arms. It feels weird to realize that maybe he didn’t have a reason to be so jealous of Kuroba.

“Yep,” agrees Kuroba, then adds, with a depth of understanding that makes Shinichi wince, “So there’s no reason to get competitive or feel jealous, Assistant Inspector. I had reverse-nepotism on my side.” Shinichi wants to fade away into nothing at the genuineness in his voice. It seems that Shinichi was never as subtle about his reasons for resenting Kuroba as he might’ve thought. He can feel a flush flooding his cheeks at the fuzzy way Kuroba is looking at him over the rim of his cup and allows himself to give Kuroba a single smile in return.

“I think Assistant Inspector Kudou might want to get in your pants, Inspector Kuroba,” Saotome announces.

“Ooooh,” Kaitani and Wakamoto chorus, looking ravenously between Shinichi and Kuroba like spectators at a hockey game in overtime.

“Thank you, Saotome-san,” Shinichi says, and puts his face in his hands so he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes. He can _hear_ Kuroba grinning with self-satisfaction.

“Hot,” Kaitani declares. Shinichi peels his hands away from his face to find Kaitani nodding as the glances from Shinichi to Kuroba, assessing them with the eye of a museum curator determining whether they’re worth adding to his collection. When he catches Shinichi’s gaze, he gives him a thumbs up. “Like, nine out of ten chili peppers kind of hot. Have you ever heard of camming, Kudou-san? You and Inspector Kuroba would be really popular if you—”

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” Shinichi says. His dramatic exit is ruined by the fact that he’s on the inside of the booth and he has to wait for Kuroba to get out so he can follow. He stumbles out of the booth—the cushions are suspiciously sticky and glued his pants to the seat—straightens his jacket, and heaves a sigh. “Well, it’s been… an evening. Thanks for—all of this.” He squints at Kaitani. “Not the sexual harassment, though.”

“Isn’t the guiltiest party the one next to you?” Saotome remarks, and turns a page. Kaitani and Wakamoto gasp, as though she’s landed some kind of physical blow on him. Shinichi is too scared to turn and look at Kuroba and see his reaction.

“See you all on Monday,” he says, and attempts to hightail it out of there. However, Kuroba plants a hand on his arm, which stops Shinichi in his tracks.

“I can walk you home,” offers Kuroba, along with a complimentary wink. “Since I’m already up.”

“Uh,” Shinichi says, but before he can think of a response, Kuroba tosses down some bills on the table, grins at his subordinates, and carefully drops a hand on Shinichi’s lower back. It’s at the boundary between propriety and outright scandal, and as he’s herded from the diner, Shinichi is hit by a horrible sense of déjà vu.

“Did you just Kaitani me,” he says blankly when they’re outside. Kuroba’s hand hasn’t moved. They stop at the crosswalk to wait for the light. “Am I being Kaitani’d? Am I being a Wakamoto?”

“Of course not,” Kuroba assures him. It would be more convincing if his hand hadn’t just slid to Shinichi’s hip. He turns his face towards Shinichi, attentive, close enough that Shinichi can feel the warmth emanating off his skin in contrast to the iciness of the night air. Shinichi shivers, and not from the cold. Kuroba smells sweet, like hot sugar.

“You don’t actually have to walk me home,” says Shinichi as they cross the street. The lit entrance to the train station looms a block away. “I’m pretty sure I’m capable of making it home without a chaperone.”

“Just let me have my excuse to spend time with you,” Kuroba tells him, squeezing his side, which is bold enough that Shinichi’s mouth clamps itself shut on a panicky squawk and refuses to open the whole way to the train station. It’s fairly deserted, aside from a woman in impressively tall thigh-high boots and a sleepy-looking station attendant. Shinichi will have to catch the second-to-last train to Beika. He frowns at the thought.

“Will you be okay to get home? Don’t you live in the opposite direction?” he asks. Kuroba shrugs.

“I can always catch a taxi,” he says. Shinichi is about to call him out for frivolous spending when he adds, turning to catch Shinichi’s eye, “Or I could always stay the night at your place.”

Shinichi’s mouth does the clamping thing again.

Kuroba is forced to let go of Shinichi to get through the turnstiles, which is both disappointing and a relief. He doesn’t reassert himself once they’re through, either, but he does walk close enough to Shinichi that their shoulders brush on every other step. There’s an unexpected comfort in the whole experience. The unnerving openness of the vacant train station, the distant uneven clop-clopping of a train pulling into the station, the sloping prosody of the prerecorded loudspeaker voice: all of these pieces, undercut with Kuroba loping along beside him, coalesce into an emotion that Shinichi can’t quite divide up into words.

“You know,” Shinichi finally says, once they’re sitting on alone on an empty car of the train, “I’m glad I was transferred into your section.” Kuroba starts.

“Oh?”

“I guess I had a—certain idea about who you were before,” Shinichi admits. He doesn’t look at Kuroba, but even without looking, he can feel the weight of Kuroba’s gaze attached to the side of his face. “There may have been some things clouding my judgment. And getting to know you like this has made me realize that I might’ve been mistaken. About… those things.”

“That’s excellent news,” Kuroba says. “For a little while in there, I had the impression that you didn’t like me.”

“I wonder what could’ve given you that idea, aside from the months of being cold-shouldered,” says Shinichi. Kuroba laughs, pauses for a beat as though he’s weighing a decision, and slings an arm around his shoulders. Shinichi doesn’t exactly snuggle into Kuroba’s side, but he also doesn’t move away.

The walk from the Beika train station back to Shinichi’s house is short enough that the chill hasn’t quite finished sinking into Shinichi’s bones. Or maybe it’s the fact that Kuroba hasn’t lifted his arm off of Shinichi the entire way.

“This is my stop,” Shinichi says when they come to his front gate. He slants a look at Kuroba. “You should probably go back to the station before the last train leaves.” Trying to hide his reluctance, he slips out from underneath Kuroba’s arm and steps towards the gate. He’s trying to key in his passcode when he feels a tap against his shoulder.

“You still have paint on your face,” says Kuroba when Shinichi twists to look at him. The mess of his hair gleams in the moonlight. Twinkling is something that Shinichi had previously thought was reserved for stars and glitter, but Kuroba’s eyes are proving him wrong. Shinichi opens his mouth, about to come up with something marvelously witty, but before he can say anything, Kuroba leans in and presses a kiss to Shinichi’s cheek. When he pulls back after what feels like several ages, he licks his lips and grins the smile of a very pleased cream-getting cat.

“Mm, butterscotch,” he says, conversational, before he turns and skips away.

Shinichi stands there for long enough that a bird tries to land on his head.

* * *

_what does it mean if a guy kisses you on the cheek_ , Shinichi texts Ran the following morning.

 _SHINICHI,_ is all she sends in response.

* * *

Shinichi gets into work on Monday and finds two giant lollipops sitting on his desk. He wrinkles his nose. There’s no note, but someone has drawn a winky face on the plastic covering one of them and a heart-eyed face on the other.

“Did you see who put these here?” he asks Saotome, who gives him a significant eyebrow-raise but doesn’t vocalize anything. She is, as always, the epitome of helpful.

Shinichi is in the middle of googling “are lollipops an appropriate gift to receive from your superior who you think is hot and maybe not all that bad and possibly you would actually think about dating them and also he may have kissed you on the cheek” when Kuroba himself comes swanning out of his office and plops his ass down in the corner of Shinichi’s desk.

“So I have some devastating news for you,” he announces, while Shinichi tries in vain to yank reports out from underneath him. “I just got a call from Inspector Megure about a devastating string of serial killings. Apparently there’s someone masquerading as a clown and attacking people at ATMs late at night.”

“Oh,” Shinichi says, trying not to sound too disappointed. It’s been a while since his last clown-themed murder.

“And,” continues Kuroba, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, “you’re being transferred back to the first division to help them out, since this case is high priority.”

“Oh,” Shinichi says, and resists the urge to do a wildly inappropriate fist-pump.

“ _And_ ,” Kuroba adds, his gaze boring into Shinichi’s, “that means I’m no longer your superior officer.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Shinichi says, and feels his face going red. Kuroba’s grin is so wide that his eyes nearly disappear when he laughs.

“Romantic,” Saotome says, and turns a page.

* * *

“You see happier,” Satou comments. Shinichi tilts his head at her.

“Really? In what way?”

“Your eyes are brighter somehow. You seem more cheerful.” Satou looks him over with the keen eye of a seasoned inspector. She was pulled in as backup because Takagi, also known as Shinichi’s _technically_ direct superior and her husband, apparently has a debilitating fear of clowns. “Usually you’re not this excited about clown murders. I thought you said they were worse than vampire murders?”

“No, I think I said they’re worse than werewolf murders, but weren’t as bad as cannibal cases,” Shinichi says. They share a shudder. Nothing is worse than cannibal cases.

“Inspectors,” hisses Hiyama, one of their newly-hired rookies. She’s red-faced, and her bangs are sticking to her forehead in a single wet swath. She has one shoulder braced against the doorframe to the clown killer’s apartment and is glaring over at them, her service revolver clutched in her white-knuckled hands. “Should you perhaps consider keeping your voices down when we’re about to burst in on the clown killer who’s apparently killed four people so far? Who we _know_ has purchased materials to make explosives that he’s probably rigged to blow when he gets caught?”

“Four isn’t even the highest body count I’ve ever seen,” Satou scoffs, but she obligingly shuts up and takes out her gun. “Kudou-kun, you ready?”

“Of course,” Shinichi says.

“And you’re not going to take any risks?” she prods.

“How rude,” sniffs Shinichi, twisting to give her a mischievous look as he cocks his gun. “I’ve only been shot, like, four times.”

* * *

Kuroba is waiting for Shinichi when he gets back to the station. He’s taken off his suit jacket and has his sleeves rolled up, as if he knows how much Shinichi wants to lick his forearms as a general rule.

“How did the clown thing go?” he asks brightly. Shinichi shrugs and gives a so-so head tilt.

“It was all right.”

“We all almost got blown up, and you’re calling that _all right_?” Hiyama whisper-shrieks at him. She’s even more disheveled than before. There’s an angry-looking bump on her forehead, possibly from panicking and tripping into a kitchen counter when the clown had threatened to detonate the bombs he’d strapped to himself. Shinichi privately doubts that she’s going to last in their department.

“But nobody _did_ get blown up, which is the difference,” he points out in what he hopes is a gentle tone. She stares at him for one long moment before she shakes her head and storms off, probably to ask for a transfer to the traffic division or something.

“She must be new. Almost-bombed is an improvement on definitely-shot,” Kuroba remarks. He’s tucked his hands into his pants pockets, and it puts his arms at an angle that makes his biceps bulge. The grin is audible in his voice when he chirps, “Anyway, dinner?” Shinichi squints at him.

“I don’t put out on the first date,” he says, in tones of _wipe that smile off your face_. If anything, Kuroba’s grin only widens.

“Yes, but if you think about it, our first date was that time I took you to that udon place, and our second would be when we spent that day together at an apartment,” Kuroba counters.

“Are you referring to the time you took me to a crime scene and the time we were on a stakeout together?” Shinichi asks. Not really for clarification, more just to see if it sounds less ridiculous when he says it out loud. Kuroba beams at him.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he says, and offers an arm. With much feigned reluctance, Shinichi takes it. He’s already calculating how much he’ll mentally side-eye himself if he does end up putting out on the first date.

At the corner, right before they cross the street, Kuroba leans in and kisses the side of Shinichi’s forehead. His cheeks are the tiniest bit pink when he pulls back, and he clears his throat as though he’s a little embarrassed by himself.

“Sorry,” he says. “Your forehead just looked really cute.” The pink in his cheeks flames into red, as if he realizes how utterly stupid that sounds.

Okay, Shinichi is probably going to put out. And he’s also probably not going to regret it.

* * *

“I like your room,” Shinichi says. It’s true. In the light of day, it’s nice. The walls are covered in a simple, barely-there pinstriped wallpaper, and the desk pushed up against one corner is made of an elegant mahogany. There’s a bookshelf in one corner, stuffed to overflowing with an eclectic mix of books, from a book on multivariable calculus to a complete collection of _Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun_. On the far wall, there’s a floor-to-ceiling framed picture of someone Shinichi thinks might be Kuroba Toichi. It all coalesces into a welcoming picture.

Kaito makes a derisive noise—Kuroba became Kaito somewhere around Shinichi’s third orgasm—and pinches Shinichi’s thigh hard enough that Shinichi squeaks. He glares at Shinichi from between Shinichi’s legs, tries to say something, frowns, and frees his mouth.

“Do you mind waiting to comment on my décor until I’m done here?” he asks, snide.

“I was just,” Shinichi begins, slightly offended, and then chokes on an inhale when Kaito jams his head back down with an unexpected but not unwelcome viciousness. “O-Okay! Sorry! I’ll keep my opinion of your wallpaper to myself!” The way Kaito squeezes Shinichi’s hip, especially combined with the way he applies excessive suction, feels vindictive.

When they’re done and Shinichi’s neck has been aggressively chewed on, Kaito fumbles out of bed. His hair is horrible and sweaty, but he doesn’t bother to put on pants, so he still manages to keep Shinichi’s gaze.

“What are you feeling for breakfast, darling?” he asks. He does a luxurious stretch, pulling his body in sinuous shapes that are likely more performative than anything else.

“I’ve been upgraded to ‘darling,’ I see,” Shinichi gets out around a pant. He hasn’t actually finished catching his breath. “And anything is fine. I don’t have any allergies.” Kaito surveys him with an art critic’s eye.

“Eggs and pancakes,” he says, decisive. “You’ll need your energy for what I have planned.” Shinichi makes a faint, disparaging noise and rolls over, burying his head under Kaito’s pillow. It smells like his shampoo. From somewhere behind him, he hears Kaito laugh and pulls his head out just enough to see him bend down to press a kiss to Shinichi’s bare shoulder.

“Looks like we’re having breakfast in bed,” Kaito says, and slips out with a sway of his hips. Once Shinichi is sure he’s gone, he gingerly stands—his entire body is sore, which Kaito would probably be very proud of if Shinichi were to tell him—and crosses the room to inspect the bookshelf. None of the books look particularly out of place; they’re all well-thumbed. The desk is relatively clean and ordinary-looking, adorned with dog-shaped Post-Its reminding Kaito of various to-do lists and appointments. Up close, the floor-to-ceiling picture seems even huger than from the bed.

By the time Kaito gets back, Shinichi is back in bed, lying on his side because neither lying on his back or his front is particularly appealing with the state his body is in. Kaito has an entire breakfast service set, it seems. Shinichi goggles at the sterling silver cutlery. The edges of the plates are painted with tiny dancing cats. Kaito has somehow managed to cook a stack of pancakes and a mound of eggs that look legitimately restaurant-made. There’s even a berry garnish on the pancakes.

“I really have been upgraded,” he says. Kaito gives the leering, discomfiting smile of a fifty-four-year-old pervert.

“Yeah, I tend to whip out the silverware for people who suck my d—" Shinichi interrupts him by cramming a pancake, half an egg, and a strawberry into Kaito’s mouth. He can barely fit them in there beside Kaito’s laugh.

“But actually,” Kaito says when he’s managed to clear his airways. “I really do whip out the silverware for my boyfriend.” Shinichi pauses with a neat triangle of pancake halfway to his mouth.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” he says.

“Both?” Kaito says hopefully.

Shinichi looks down at the plate. Upon closer inspection, the cats painted on the rim of the plates are holding magnifying glasses. One of them is wearing a deerstalker. Another is pointing off into the distance and has a speech bubble coming out of its mouth that says “The culprit is you!”

“Did you buy this plate set specifically for me?” he asks. Kaito flushes.

“Yes,” he answers, looking shifty. Shinichi sighs, with resignation and the realization that before he even realized it, he’s gotten in very, very deep.

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’m your boyfriend.”

The plate set nearly breaks when Kaito tackles him into the sheets.

* * *

Dating Kaito, as it turns out, is easy, especially when they work in the same building and keep mostly the same hours, except when Shinichi has a case or Kaito has a Kid heist. They can come to work together in the morning, if they spend the night together. It’s also nice that they both have their own offices, which allows for subtle making-outs when their schedules allow. There is a problem with it, though, and it’s called “Everyone Shinichi knows is a police officer or affiliated with a police officer, so things get spread through his social network very quickly.”

Case in point: His mother calls him from Milan.

“You’re dating Toichi-san’s son?” she squeals when he picked up. Shinichi has been officially dating Kaito for half a day.

“Do I want to know how you found out,” he says, already dreading the answer.

“I heard from Momose-chan! He’s been keeping me updated on everything between the two of you since that holiday party! Your father is thinking of using your story as a romance subplot in his next book!” is his mother’s response. Shinichi decides he’s going to have a talk with Inspector Momose.

Still, Shinichi manages to keep his people away from Kaito for an admirable week and a half until he makes the mistake of walking Sera out after their finish the paperwork for a case they worked together. Sera is wearing her best leather jacket and has enough pomade in her hair to wax a car, a combination that means she’s on her way to a date with Ran. Shinichi is trying not to stare at her ears, which rattle with every movement of her head. It seems like she’s gained a piercing every time he sees her.

They’re so engrossed in their conversation about the drowning case they just finished working that Sera almost walks into Kaito, who’s apparently been lying in wait in the hallway outside their division. At first, Sera looks pissed, but when the identity of the person she almost just steamrolled hits her, she looks thrilled.

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh,” Kaito says.

“Oh _no_ ,” Shinichi says. Sera grins so widely nobody would have guessed she had been about to pull her gun on Kaito for being an idiot who lurks around blind corners.

“I was just waiting for Shinichi,” Kaito explains, like the naïve fool he is. “You must be Sera Masumi. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Kuroba Kaito, in case you didn’t know.”

“Yes, I do know you. You can never keep your mouth shut in interdepartmental meetings,” Sera says absently. “So you’re Kudou-kun’s boyfriend now, huh?” She’s looking him up and down, assessing. Shinichi can see Kaito physically force himself not to try to cover himself up, which is fair, considering that Sera takes out her phone at one point to type something, raising an eyebrow at his shoulders. When she finishes her examination, she’s wearing a shit-eating smile. “I could definitely take you in a fight.”

“You probably could, but I’d prefer that you didn’t try,” Kaito agrees, eyeing the shape of her biceps beneath her jacket. Shinichi would have to agree as well; he suspects Sera could take a hippo on steroids, just with her sheer tenacity.

“Wise,” says Sera, nodding. “I could definitely break you like a toothpick.” She bares her teeth at him. “But I’d let Kudou-kun have first dibs if you ever did anything. Did you know that out of everyone in our department, he’s solved the highest number of cases that involve castration? I bet he knows a thing or two about it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kaito says. He gives Shinichi a slightly soppy look. Apparently the castration thing doesn’t faze him, went ignored, or has been reinterpreted into something attractive. “Wow, baby, you’re so talented.”

“In _castration_ ,” Sera emphasizes. “Which he could do. To people who sexually harass him in the workplace.” Kaito’s face goes stormy.

“There are people who sexually harass Shinichi at work?”

Sera gives Shinichi a very loaded look.

“Excellent,” Shinichi says loudly. “I’m glad we’re having this very uncomfortable conversation in the middle of a hallway at the place we all work.” A passing officer presses himself flat to the opposite wall as he slides past, as though he’ll contract whatever disease they all must be afflicted with if he gets too close.

“Of course. Let’s change the subject,” Sera suggests. Then, with all the subtlety of the proverbial bull in the china shop, she says, “So what’s your favorite Holmes story? And yes, there’s a right answer.”

“I haven’t really read them?” Kaito answers, concern oozing across his face. “I’ve seen the BBC adaptation, though?” He looks between them. “Is that the right answer?”

Shinichi has to admit that Kaito wears desperation very well.

“Really?” Sera turns to give Shinichi a judgmental look, the same one she gave him two years ago when he said he wasn’t a huge motorcycle guy, personally, so he wasn’t super interested in going to a four-day motorcycle exhibition with her. “This is who you want to be with?”

“Thank you, Sera,” Shinichi cuts in before Kaito can get properly offended. “I’m going to leave with my boyfriend. Give my best to Ran.”

“Mm,” Sera says. “I’ll tell her that your taste has declined since you dated her.”

“Okay,” Shinichi says, because he doesn’t really know what else there is to say, and also, she’s probably right. Sera grins, ruffles his hair violently enough that Shinichi is dizzy by the end of it, and saunters off, whistling. Kaito stares after her, a look of apprehension on his face.

“So was that like meeting your dad?” he asks. Shinichi thinks about it.

“No, I’m pretty sure my dad is going to be way easier than that. He mostly just follows my mom’s lead when it comes to my love life, and my mom already loves you,” he says. He claps Kaito on the shoulder, squeezing lightly as he leans in. “You didn’t do terribly, though. Even if she texted Ran to make fun of your shoulder-to-hip ratio.”

“My what?” Kaito says faintly.

* * *

Shinichi wouldn’t say he’s the best at relationships—he’s had people leave him over things ranging from the way he chews, his inability to make his hair lie flat, and the fact that he apparently narrates Sherlock Holmes novels in his sleep—but he’s hit the third month of dating Kaito, and it’s going pretty well, if he dares to say it. Shinichi isn’t sure he’s liked anyone quite this much, too. Kaito is hot, smart, into morning sex, and willing to challenge baristas who get Shinichi’s coffee order wrong, and somehow Kaito seems to think he’s the one dating up. Shinichi has caught him staring fixedly at his face on several occasions.

“Did you know that your face is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen?” Kaito had asked once, when Shinichi caught him staring. They had been in Shinichi’s office in the homicide department, and Shinichi was reading a case report on a particularly grisly beheading. Every so often, one of Shinichi’s subordinates would drift past, take an unsubtle look at the two of them, and scurry away. “I think it’s something about the way your eyebrows get all scrunchy when you realize I’m looking at you.”

“Thank God I was blessed with these eyebrows. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had the honor of dating an eyebrow fetishist,” Shinichi had remarked, said eyebrows raised, and Kaito had grinned and kissed him on each one. A traffic officer loitering by the door squealed, clamped their hands over their mouth, and hurried out of view.

“I think I’m more of a Shinichi fetishist,” Kaito said when he pulled back. Shinichi had clamped his mouth shut and went back to his decapitation, feeling Kaito’s eyes on him as he went.

So, yes, the relationship is going well. Shinichi has tentatively alerted Takagi and Megure to the relationship, just so that any potential bureaucracy can be headed off. Takagi had been so happy to hear that Shinichi was dating someone that he had almost cried. Ever since his and Satou’s first kid was born, he’s been extoling the virtues of settling down.

“I’m proud of you, Kudou-kun,” he’d said, putting a hand on Shinichi’s shoulder and giving him a fatherly smile around his damp-looking eyes. “Inspector Kuroba is admittedly a strange choice—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him manage to not make an inappropriate joke whenever someone says the words ‘long’ and ‘hard’ in conjunction—but I’m so glad that you’ve taken this step.”

“That’s my boyfriend,” Shinichi had said, offended. “And anyone who describes anything as ‘long and hard’ in the first place is already asking for someone to make a ‘that’s what she said’ joke.”

Takagi had visibly teared up, then, and dragged Shinichi into a hug.

“You really are in love,” he had whispered as Shinichi awkwardly patted him on the back. “Congratulations, Kudou-kun.” Embarrassing interactions with someone who’s technically his boss aside, Shinichi agrees with the sentiment.

Currently, though, Shinichi is at a loss, despite his usual confidence in their relationship. He and Kaito promised to meet at Poirot for a late dinner after Shinichi got back investigating a case in Shizuoka and Kaito finished attending a Kid heist at the Haidou Museum of Modern Art. However, it’s edging past nine, and Shinichi is starting to get sympathetic looks from Azusa.

“Tinder date?” she says, looking sympathetic, when she stops by to top off his tea. “They only ever want one thing, Shinichi-kun. It’s possible that they matched with someone who has a thigh gap and a cute dog and decided that you weren’t worth their time anymore.”

“Uh, no,” says Shinichi, though he looks her up and down with a new, uncomfortable understanding. “I’m actually waiting for my boyfriend, but he’s late. And he’s not answering his phone for some reason.” He sends another series of question marks in LINE, just to prove his point. It joins the fifteen other lines of question marks he’s already sent.

“Of course,” Azusa says, with a knowing look. Shinichi cringes.

“I’ll have the hamburger curry,” he says. Azusa brings a glass of wine with it, then a bottle when Kaito still hasn’t shown up an hour and a half later.

“It’s on the house,” she tells Shinichi, giving him a sisterly pat him on the hand, when he tries to pay for it before he leaves at Poirot’s closing time. Shinichi makes a mental note to bring Kaito back there sometime soon, just so she doesn’t think he’s delusional and alone.

It’s only a fifteen-minute walk home from Poirot, but Shinichi stops in a convenience store along the way and takes his time deliberating what Haagen-Dasz flavor to get, so it’s nearly eleven thirty when he finally comes up to his house. He’s trying to decide whether he was right to have gotten the sweet potato flavor instead of the hoji latte when he sees a dark, unmoving shape by his front door, too big to be a package or the neighborhood cat he feeds every now and again. Frowning, Shinichi checks the front gate, which seems to be undisturbed, before he types in the security code and approaches.

The shape stirs slightly as he gets closer. With the decrease in distance comes the realization that Shinichi is looking at the curled-up shape of Kaitou Kid, his hang glider a twisted metal contraption against his shoulder, his shoulders hunched in so his face is obscured. When he hears Shinichi’s footsteps coming towards him, he flinches, freezes, and then, with a shaking, careful slowness, untwists. By the time Shinichi is standing right beside him, he’s looking up at Shinichi. It’s Kaito.

“I can explain,” Kaito says. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Shinichi looks him over. There’s blood all over his suit, various shades of bright scarlet drying to deep brown, but most of it is concentrated around his left flank. Kaito’s face is lined with tiredness and pain.

“Did you get shot at the heist?” Shinichi asks, raising an eyebrow. And then, “Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve come to pick you up from the museum.”

“I dropped my phone on my way out. Also, I was being shot at while I was escaping, so stopping to call you would’ve been a little hard,” says Kaito, slow. He squints at Shinichi. “Um, I’m Kid?”

“Is that a question, or did you suffer some head trauma to go along with the bullet wound?” Shinichi asks as he unlocks his front door. He makes a face at the bloodstain Kaito leaves all over his doorstep when he staggers to his feet, though Shinichi still ducks in to wrap an arm around Kaito for support. “Also, you’re getting me a new doormat.”

“Can I make it one that says ‘Definitely not a trapdoor’ on it?” Kaito asks. Shinichi pats him on the stomach, just barely missing the edge of the bullet wound, and takes no small amount of pleasure in the way Kaito squeaks in surprised pain.

“No,” Shinichi says. “I only accept tasteful doormats.” They reach Shinichi’s living room couch by the time he finishes talking, and Shinichi helps Kaito stretch out on it while mentally bemoaning the amount of dry cleaning it’s going to take to get all the blood out of his couch cushions. Kaito looks pitiful enough that he doesn’t say any of it out loud, though.

“I think I have some bandages left over from the last time I got shot, actually,” Shinichi comments. “I’ll get the first aid kid and grab those bandages.”

“Oh, okay,” Kaito says, faint. He’s managed to get most of the crunched-up remains of his hang glider out from underneath himself. His hat has fallen off his head, revealing the sweaty mess of his hair. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be bleeding here.” Shinichi is halfway down the hall when he hears Kaito go, “Wait, is this suede? Shinichi? How are you going to get this cleaned? Please don’t break up with me!”

Shinichi bites down on his reflexive smile.

He’s been back in the living room, getting to work cleaning and inspecting the wound, when Kaito clears his throat, or makes a wheezy approximation of a throat-clearing. Shinichi pours a little more sterile saline solution.

“So… you didn’t seem surprised that I’m Kid?” Kaito asks, sounding hesitant and also deeply pained.

“No, I guess I wasn’t,” Shinichi agrees absently. The wound seems to be, for the most part, superficial, though it’s bleeding a lot. The bullet went through cleanly, at least, so Shinichi doesn’t have to dig out any bits of shrapnel. It also doesn’t seem like anything extremely vital has been injured too badly, which is also a good sign. “I mean, I’ve known you were Kid since the first heist.”

“What?” Kaito makes to sit up but makes a pitiful whimpering sound and collapses back down flat. His mouth works for a second before he snaps it shut as though he’s trying not to throw up. Shinichi shakes his head at him and reaches for the antibiotic ointment.

“Did you really think you were being subtle about the fact that you’re Kid?” he says, dabbing the ointment on and around the wound with a Q-tip. Kaito seems too transfixed by Shinichi’s face to even notice when Shinichi prods him a little more roughly than intended. “You do magic, just like Kid does. That trick with the rose? That was pure Kid. And also, no normal police inspector would ever camp out in a security booth while his target is running around. That’s ridiculous. And also? When you dyed my hair that first night, you got close enough that I could smell your cologne. It was very obviously you.”

“Damn it,” Kaito mutters.

“Also, I found your secret Kid room when we slept together the first time,” Shinichi says. “No grown man with nothing to hide has a giant poster of his own father in his bedroom. I figured it had to be hiding something.” He winces, avoiding Kaito’s incredulous gaze as he closes the tube of ointment. “I kept making eye contact with him while we were… you know.”

“ _Damn_ it,” Kaito mutters again. “Is that why you always invite me to yours instead of coming to mine?” Shinichi makes an apologetic noise at him.

“It may have played a role?”

Kaito settles back on the couch cushions, looking ruffled.

“So this whole time you knew,” he says, strangled in a way that sounds like he doesn’t know if he should be proud of Shinichi or embarrassed of himself. Shinichi thinks both are warranted, to be honest. He’s just beginning to wrap the bandages around Kaito when Kaito goes, as though he’s had a revelation, “Wait, is that why you wouldn’t date me?”

“Maybe,” says Shinichi cagily. “I mean, there was a part of me that wasn’t sure I wanted to date a thief. But it was mostly really frustrating that somehow literal _Kid_ was a police inspector, the inspector in charge of the task force that’s trying to catch him, when I’m still an assistant inspector. It was just—really aggravating, knowing that a literal criminal was picked to be an inspector when I wasn’t. But it makes sense now, I guess. Hakuba must know you’re Kid, so he probably thinks it’s funny.” He clears his throat. “And anyway, even when I was jealous, I could sort of see that you were… you. A good person who cares about your people. Someone who tries to lighten things up for everyone.”

“Darling,” Kaito sniffs before he catches Shinichi’s hand. “I’m honored that you still chose to date me.” Shinichi is honestly kind of impressed that his next move is to sit up and draw Shinichi in for a kiss, one hand sliding down to pet Shinichi’s ass lovingly. Shinichi tolerates this behavior for long enough that Kaito tries to get his tongue into Shinichi’s mouth, at which point Shinichi pulls back.

“It’s very flattering that you’re trying anything when you have a hole in your side,” he says kindly, patting Kaito on the shoulder.

“Take it as a sign of my devotion to you,” Kaito tries, and goes for his neck. Shinichi tolerates his gnawing for a minute longer (self-indulgently) before he dislodges Kaito.

“You’re very sweet, but I think you should probably rest.”

“But Shinichi,” Kaito says, with a hint of a whine, “you just told me something about how smart you are! And you took care of me! It was super hot!” When Shinichi squints at him, he adds, hasty, “And also I now know that you’ve always loved me, enough to overlook my criminal activity, which is very romantic and also super hot.” The softness of his eyes belies the casualness of his words.

“Hm,” says Shinichi, feeling his defenses weaken. It isn’t fair that Kaito is breaking out “love” so easily, even if it’s probably accurate. Grimacing at his own weakness, he leans back in to kiss the pout off of Kaito’s mouth before he reaches for the waistband of Kaito’s God-awful white pants. Kaito’s stomach flexes in anticipation even as the man himself whimpers in pain. Shinichi, halfway to fitting himself between Kaito’s legs, frowns at him. “You’re not allowed to move. If you aggravate your wound, I’m going to stop.”

“Kinky,” Kaito mutters before Shinichi descends upon him and he dissolves into a groan. “Can I touch you?”

“Nope,” Shinichi says when he pulls free, merciless. Kaito somehow manages to look extra pitiful. Shinichi sighs. “But I can jerk off on your face after?”

“Deal,” Kaito says decisively.

* * *

Shinichi successfully herds Kaito up to bed, once Kaito is nearly asleep and loopy from the drawn-out orgasm and painkillers Shinichi graciously bestowed upon him. He’s washing his hands when he hears his intercom ring. When he goes to take the call, he finds Wakamoto’s face staring at him, rounded from the fish-eye lens. As if he knows that Shinichi is watching, he waves.

“Uh, Wakamoto?” Shinichi says. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

“I brought something for you!” Wakamoto chirps, bypassing the question, and hoists a plastic bag with unidentifiable contents in the air. Shinichi, bewildered, buzzes him through the gate. He waits for Wakamoto on his front step, shutting his front door behind him. Slightly too late, he realizes that there’s a giant bloodstain on his welcome mat. He steps on top of it just as Wakamoto comes to a stop in front of him, plastic bag swinging on his arm.

“What’s going on, Wakamoto?” Shinichi asks, not hiding the suspicion in his voice.

“Oh, I just thought you might need these, if the inspector came by,” Wakamoto says, and thrusts the bag at Shinichi. Frowning, Shinichi takes it from him and peers inside, to find that it’s full of bandages, a new tub of ointment, and several other miscellaneous first-aid items.

“And why would I need these if Kaito came by?” he says, even as the answer coalesces in his head with a burst of neurons firing.

“Because Kid got shot at the heist,” Wakamoto says. “And since Inspector Kuroba is Kid, I thought he might need some help. He wasn’t at his house, so I figured he was probably here.” He beams at Shinichi. Shinichi is struck by a sudden paternal instinct to ruffle his hair and call him a “good kid.”

“Thanks, Wakamoto,” he says, instead of doing that. Wakamoto grins.

“Everyone’s worried about him,” he says. “I’ll tell them he’s in good hands. Kaitani-kun will also try to suppress any collection of the blood the inspector left at the scene. I think Inspector Kuroba’s DNA is on record, so it would probably be bad if it got matched.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Shinichi, clutching the bag to his chest. “How long have you guys known?” Wakamoto adopts a thinking face, complete with looking up to the side and stroking his chin.

“Well, it’s really just Saotome-san, Kaitani-kun, and me who figured it out. We’ve been trying to keep everyone else from figuring it out. Saotome-san figured it out after a month or so of working in our division. I had to tell Kaitani-kun, though. I don’t think he would’ve gotten it if I hadn’t.”

“ _You_ had to tell Kaitani?” Shinichi says, with perhaps too much obvious surprise. Wakamoto’s smile sharpens. For a second, he looks significantly less like a “good kid” and more like someone who could very easily get away with triple homicide, if the mood struck him. Shinichi blinks, and he’s back to his usual overexcited-puppy self.

“Of course!” Wakamoto laughs. “Next you’ll be telling me that you thought I didn’t know Kaitani-kun is in love with me and Saotome-san was the head of a yakuza clan!” With a wink, he gives Shinichi a crisp salute and prances off into the night. Shinichi had previously though that only reindeer and enthusiastic ballet dancers “pranced,” but apparently, he was wrong. He stares after Wakamoto, the bag dangling from his hand, and steps back inside.

Upstairs, he slides into bed beside Kaito. Kaito, half-asleep, makes a low, mournful noise until Shinichi rolls into his arms.

“Why are you so cold,” Kaito mumbles, burying his face in Shinichi’s hair and inhaling with a slightly uncomfortable amount of gusto.

“I had to step out for a second,” Shinichi says. “Did you know that Saotome was a yakuza boss?”

“What?” Kaito says into Shinichi’s temple.

“Nothing,” Shinichi says, turning so he faces Kaito. “You have good friends, Kaito.”

“And an even better boyfriend,” Kaito murmurs, flirtatious despite being seconds from sleep. Shinichi laughs, even as his neck is bitten in retribution.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You have that, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [catch me on twitter! ](https://twitter.com/lunarscaped)


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